


La Primavera

by nickelsandcoats



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickelsandcoats/pseuds/nickelsandcoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a song that Sherlock plays for John, even as he waits for him in the afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Primavera

**Author's Note:**

> For [thegameison_sh](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com)’s Cycle 3, Round 1 challenge. The prompt was "Spring."

_He who was living is now dead  
We who were living are now dying_ ⎯T.S. Eliot, _The Waste Land_

 

John let Emily help him kneel down in front of the headstone, dropping his cane with a grunt as he leaned forward and brushed his trembling fingers (they always trembled now—both hands shook like leaves in the spring breeze) against the cool granite. He tried hard not to let his gaze linger on one of the names carved into the stone—it was his own.

He turned his attention to the name next to his.

 _Sherlock Holmes-Watson  
19 July 1976—23 May 2044_

He swallowed thickly and accepted the small bouquet of roses Emily handed him. He carefully placed them under Sherlock’s name and bowed his head, letting the spring sun warm the back of his neck.

 _I’m coming, love. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, but I’ll be with you soon. We always said we’d go together, but I couldn’t leave Emily alone—she needed me. Just like she needed you. We miss you, love._

Emily’s long fingers gripped his shoulder as she leaned into him, letting her tears soak his jumper. “I miss Dad so much, Daddy. I can’t even imagine…”

Guilt twisted deep in his gut. He hadn’t had the courage to tell her that his cancer was terminal; that he didn’t have long, a few weeks, at best. He couldn’t tell her that this was the last time he’d come with her to what would be his and his husband’s, both her fathers’ grave. Even though she was grown, he still thought of her as his little girl, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t break her heart. Not now.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and breathed, “He loved you, just as much as I love you. Never forget that.”

“Never,” she breathed as he held her the best he could.

***

Sherlock puttered around the garden, checking the hives as he did every morning before breakfast. Spring was John’s favourite season, so Sherlock, when he had come here, had asked for it always to be spring so John would be happy when he arrived, and so it was.

Satisfied that the bees were well, he walked back inside, still delighting in the fact that he had his thirty-four-year-old body back. He wanted John to see him here in Heaven as he was when they first met at Bart’s all those years ago, when John had cracked open his heart and made him whole.

Smiling at the memory of John’s confusion after their first conversation in Bart’s’ labs, Sherlock pulled out his violin and tuned it, running through a few practice scales before launching into Emily’s favourite of Mendelssohn’s _Lieder_. His lips curved in a sad smile as he remembered their daughter bouncing around their sitting room in Baker Street, begging him to play her favourite song, the absolute joy and peace that came over her when he let his bow drift across the strings.

As the last note of the _Lieder_ rang out, Sherlock switched to John’s favourite, Vivaldi’s “La primavera” from the _Four Seasons_. This was his song for John, the one he played when the loss of his husband was too much to bear. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the memory of the last time he had played it for John, not opening his eyes until the last reverberation of the final note died out in the room.

When he looked up, John was standing in front of him, tears running down his face. “John?” Sherlock barely had enough time to set down the violin before John swept him up in his arms, clinging to his husband and breathing him in.

***

Emily Holmes-Watson bent down and placed two bouquets of roses underneath her fathers’ names. Her steady hand traced the freshly carved date under her Daddy’s name.

 _John Holmes-Watson  
8 September 1971⎯14 June 2048_

She smiled a watery smile as she opened the violin case and tucked her Dad’s violin under her chin.

“I lied when I said I didn’t know this one, Daddy. Dad made me promise not to play it after he died because it would make you too sad, but I hope it’s okay to play it now. I hope he’s playing it for you, too.”

She set the bow to the strings and let Vivaldi’s “La primavera” ring out through the silence of the cemetery.


End file.
